


Angel With a Shotgun

by Needle_Bones



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-16
Updated: 2015-06-16
Packaged: 2018-04-04 18:27:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4148304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Needle_Bones/pseuds/Needle_Bones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Attempting to keep up with cross-posting fics.) Started this last year, if you can believe, and just now figured out how to finish it. Life has been ridiculous lately. Can (and should) totally be read as sort of… pre-camerashipping.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Angel With a Shotgun

Waylon Park crossed the deserted street with his head down against the wind and his hands shoved in his coat pockets. His wristwatch had been screwing up more and more lately but he believed it when it said it was almost two in the morning.

It was a risk to stay in Denver at all but the fact was that he hadn’t been prepared to just pick up and run. Murkoff would be after him as soon as that video went public, which he’d been assured would be at exactly six a.m. that day.

Needless to say, it would be best to get as far away from the asylum as humanly possible before then.

It hadn’t been easy to explain any of it to Lisa but he’d done the best he could. He never told her where he was planning on heading, even in general terms. He wasn’t that stupid. People couldn’t be made to tell what they didn’t know. He was disappearing and he’d told her to do the same. She’d hugged him too tight at the door. Neither of them had woken the kids.

Waylon was always impressed by Lisa’s ability to keep herself out of trouble. If he knew her at all, he knew she’d do just fine without him for as long as she needed to, whether it was a few months or the rest of their lives.

The street was slick and glossy with the still-falling rain. Waylon jumped a puddle and started up the sidewalk, glancing over his shoulder every now and then. He’d been doing that ever since he’d escaped but deep down, he never expected to see anyone. Truth be told, he nearly hadn’t. The man had kept to the shadows, nearly impossible to see until he was just a few feet behind him.

“Mr. Waylon Park,” he said in a voice like broken glass.

He didn’t sound familiar in the least, but somehow every stranger had become a part of the entity known as ‘Murkoff’ anymore. One gigantic hive mind. Bastards, all.

If Waylon had had a response prepared, it wouldn’t have mattered. The man clearly knew who he was. It also wouldn’t have mattered if he’d caught sight of the gun any sooner. The outcome would have remained the same.

The world tilted and just like that, Waylon was back in the asylum, sitting on the ground and watching Blaire be ripped apart in mid-air.

He scrambled backward as soon as his vision cleared and the world stopped spinning, watching the shadows twist around the assassin’s neck like a noose of heavy fog, pulling him up off the ground. He kicked and screamed, but the sound was lost in the heavy drone of static and rain.

_Walrider…_

Waylon wanted to scream. He clamped a hand over his mouth but couldn’t quite bring himself to look away when the shadows swarmed like something living and enraged and drug the man down, headfirst, straight through an iron storm grate.

A sick, gristly snapping sound and a rush of blood, red turning clear and quickly disappearing in the storm.

Then nothing.

Utter silence for what felt like an eternity. Waylon sat on the pavement, deaf to the world outside his own head for the time being thanks to the blood rushing in his ears, his pulse hammering against his ribs with enough force he thought they’d crack.

“They’ll try again.”

He did scream then, a short bark of a sound, and twisted back to see who’d come up behind him. Face your killer, or some such nonsense. Or maybe he was just surprised.

“Who-”

“Miles Upshur. Remember?”

“Miles…” Waylon tested the name on his tongue and soon enough it all came back to him. The journalist. The one he’d called in just before Mount Massive became a battleground. The recognition must have showed because the reporter walked away enough to pick up the small handgun the agent had been carrying, flung to the side and resting near the wall of a building.

Waylon got himself together. “What the hell just happened?” he asked, getting to his feet with all the grace of a newborn deer. “Did you see that?”

“I did.”

“How are you not panicking? You saw that…  _thing_  in the asylum, same as I did!”

Miles turned the gun over in his hands, checked the sight. “Not entirely the same,” was all he said.

“Wha…” Waylon stopped short as the realization hit him. “You,” he said, the word choked and raw. “It was you.”

Miles turned to smile at him, his eyes clearing. “Guilt as charged,” he said. “And I wasn’t kidding before. Murkoff is like a hydra – cut off one head, and two more appear. This isn’t going to be easy. They’ll try again, and soon. I suggest you find somewhere to hide.”

Waylon took a slow breath, trying to look calm even though his intestines were squirming. “I’ve got a place,” he said. Then, after a pause, “What about you?”

Miles gestured loosely with the handgun. “Oh, I’m  _fine,_ ” he said with a grin that might have been charming if it hadn’t looked so… unhinged. “It’s pretty hard to take down a swarm of nanomachines.”

“So… you’re really…” Waylon trailed off. He couldn’t believe it. He’d thought he’d gotten the man killed, and that was bad enough, but this…

“Don’t worry about it,” Miles told him as though he’d read his mind. And maybe he had, for all Waylon knew. “Just go disappear. The longer you hang around in one place, the easier you are to catch.” With that, the reporter turned on his heel and started up the sidewalk, past the darkened storefronts and flickering streetlights.

“Thank you,” Waylon called after him, then wanted to kick himself. To his relief, Miles simply raised one hand as he walked.

“I wouldn’t worry too much, Mr. Park,” he said without turning. His voice buzzed like static wasps in Waylon’s head. “If they want you, they’ll have to get through me.”

He paused and looked back at him when he said that, catching the programmer’s gaze and holding it. And then he was gone.

Waylon saw it happen, watched his body fade into black smoke as he turned away, shadows running like blood, but he still stood there for an inordinate amount of time afterward, staring after him. 

_Well, Lisa,_  he thought as he finally started walking again, the night air filling his lungs with a chemical, mechanical scent he couldn’t quite place.  _It looks like I have a guardian angel._


End file.
